


sweet ache

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, BDSM, Caning, Collars, Comeplay, Dom Stiles, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, M/M, Praise Kink, Sub Derek, lack of aftercare, light punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 18:48:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12042030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: His body aches, and his knees twinge in protest, a quiet reminder that he is getting too old to fight every threat in Beacon Hills. The right one sets up a slow burning complaint, the remains of a fight with a scorpion chimera, and he keeps himself still only be sheer force of will.Naked and collared, he waits on his knees.





	sweet ache

**Author's Note:**

> There's a lack of aftercare in this that I don't usually endorse. But see, here's what happened.  
> I got drunk, and destimushi and I started talking about how pretty Dylan O'Brien looks on his knees (in the American Assassin trailer. Yeah. It's lovely) and that led to how gorgeous sub!Derek is and did I mention I was drunk? So I wrote this. And by the time I got to the end, I was bored and they fell asleep and I did, and yeah.  
> Don't skip aftercare, kids, it's important.

His body aches, the deep muscle thrum of pain. The chupacabra’s claw marks have healed, closed over the night before, the blood wiped away under sharp, worried amber eyes. But the phantom pain is still there--he wonders sometimes if the humans in the pack understand that.

Just because the wounds have closed over, doesn’t mean the pain doesn’t linger.

The apartment building he pulls up to is familiar, even if they rarely use it. He swallows as he slips out of the Camero and walks up to the first floor unit. He enters the apartment quietly, feeling the cool air whispering over his skin.

The air is quiet and still and he releases the breath he had been holding as he closes the door behind him and moves the the bedroom. It smells stale and still and he bites back his whine, the urge to crawl in the bed and roll in the sheets.

He isn’t allowed to do that.

Instead he strips with quick, methodical precision, folding his clothes neatly until there is a small stack on the floor and he is naked and shivering in the chill stillness.

A thin wooden box sits on the bed, and Derek opens it, his breath easing from him as he sees the leather loop.

It matches the black leather cuff on his wrists, the ones he never removes. They’re thin and butter smooth, the black dull from daily wear, and this one is still shiny with disuse and newness, with a thin D ring hanging from it and a shiny silver buckle and he aches suddenly, for the weight of it, for the grounding reality of it around his throat.

His fingers shake--always shake--as he buckles the collar on, and then he sinks, crumples, to his knees, the collar a comforting familiar weight that settles his anxious nerves and makes him desperate, all at once.

His body aches, and his knees twinge in protest, a quiet reminder that he is getting too old to fight every threat in Beacon Hills. The right one sets up a slow burning complaint, the remains of a fight with a scorpion chimera, and he keeps himself still only be sheer force of will.

Naked and collared, he waits on his knees.

He doesn’t hear the door open, which doesn’t surprise him. On nights like this, he doesn’t like to be heard or seen or smelled. He doesn’t like any of Derek’s superior senses in play.

Fingers trail over his collar, checking the buckles wordlessly and then, softly, “Very nice, sweet boy.”

Derek wants to straighten, wants to preen under that faint praise, but he holds himself still, his head tucked down.

“Do you know why I wanted you to come here tonight?”

His voice is low and steady, none of the sharp rising and falling and quickness that he is used to and Derek swallows his whine.

“I got hurt.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then, “Derek.”

It’s sharp and cutting and Derek hunches just a little. “Because I put myself at unnecessary risk.”

There’s a quiet hum of approval and Derek straightens.

“You put yourself at risk. And you know how I feel about that.”

An argument burns in his throat, but he nods, some of the residual tension in his muscles easing under the gentle brush of calloused fingers.

“You don’t like it,” he whispers, and there’s an approving pat on his shoulder.

“Why?”

He swallows. This is the hardest part. He stills behind Derek, and for a moment, he wishes he could sense _him_.

The collar is spelled to dulled his sense, rips them away to leave him almost human, slowed his healing, and he _loved_ that, but there was always one moment, _this moment_ when he wished he could hear the beat of that familiar heart, taste his steady arousal on the air, hear the sharp pant of his breathing.

“Why, sweet boy?” Stiles coaxes, and he crumples.

There is nothing he wouldn’t give Stiles, no request he could refuse, even standing as Alpha to the pack.

But, here, like this, willingly reduced to almost-human, and kneeling at Stiles’ feet, he _wants_ to obey. Even though he shakes, body and voice, as he says, “Because I’m yours.”

Stiles sighs, and long fingers brush over his throat, over his collar and Stiles’ voice was rich and full as he murmurs, “Yeah. Mine. You’re mine to hurt and to care for.”

Derek nods and leans back, finally lift his eyes as Stiles tugs hard on his hair, pulling his head back and up, baring his throat and Derek wants to, he _wants to._ He bites at Derek’s lip, and the werewolf sigh as Stiles kisses him, sucks gently on his tongue as his fingers wrap around Derek’s throat.

“Mine,” he murmurs, against Derek’s lips and then he straightens, and his eyes are soft but stern.

“Tell me.”

Derek thinks of the night before. When the chupacabra clawed him open, when he pushed his betas aside and threw himself into danger first.

Stiles waits, patient and still until Derek closes his eyes.

“My side and under my ribs. Across my back. My right Achilles heel. My right thigh.”

“Twenty five, then.” Stiles says, quietly and Derek shudders. For a moment, Stiles stills, and he murmurs. “Color?”

Derek stares up at him, and licks his lips. His body aches and he is almost shaking now and it takes two times to get it out. “ _Green._ Please, god, green.”

Stiles steps away and his voice is sharp and brisk as he says, “Get on the bed.”

Derek scrambles to obey, and Stiles hums in approval behind him. “Good boy,” he murmurs and Derek whines, pushes his hands under the pillow and arching a little, searching.

“None of that,” Stiles says, sharp, and he collapses like a puppet with cut strings. His hands shake a little as he reaches for the silk ties on the bed.

Stiles has very few limits in their bed, but he won’t restrain Derek, even when Derek begs him for it. The silk loops are their compromise, a way for Derek to feel restrained without ever truly being tied.

The first blow comes hard and unexpected, and Derek whines as pain licks through him.

It’s a cane tonight and he settles into it, into the sharp sting and sweet ache. “I love you,” Stiles says, and hits him again.

“You don’t have to hurt yourself.”

Again.

“You’re a good alpha.”

Again.

“You are so _good_ for me.”

Again.

“I love you.”

_Again._

“You have taught the betas so much.”

**_Again._ **

**_“_ ** Laura would be proud of you.”

**_AGAIN._ **

“ _I love you.”_

Derek is sobbing when Stiles finally stops, the blows and pain blurring with the steady wash of Stiles voice, warm and reassuring and steady, wrapping him in all good things. All the truths that Stiles pours into him, the ones he believes so firmly that Derek can’t help but believe them as well.

He whines as it stops, the words and the blows, and feels the dip of the bed, as Stiles crouches next to him.

He’s whispering now, pressing praise into Derek’s skin as he kisses the welts on his back and Derek writhes, arches into the brush of Stiles cock against him.

“Derek,” Stiles says, his voice shaking and Derek can hear the rush of noise, Stiles words tripping, “God, baby, just--just--” and then he can only hear the sound of Stiles jerking off, knees braced on either side of his hips. There’s a hot slip of wet on his back and Stiles snarls as he jerks himself off. “Come for me, Derek, _come on_.”

Obedient and drifting into that delicious space only Stiles can send him, he releases the silk tie and reaches down with a cramped hand, takes his hard cock in hand, stroking himself almost absently.

Then Stiles _bites_ him and come spills, hot and burning across his back. “So good, Derek. You’re so good for me. So perfect,” Stiles breathes, he never can stop _talking_ and Derek comes, between one breath and the next, spilling over his hand and the bed with soft noise, almost a whine, as Stiles nuzzles and nips at the nape of his neck.

Still silence settles over the apartment, and it doesn’t smell stale anymore. It’s rich and bright, the smell of sex and sweat, blood and _Stiles_ and Derek whines happily as Stiles shifts to the side, curling around him and petting anxiously at his back.

His muscles ache and he _hurts_ but he knows hurt.

He knows good and bad hurt. And for now, in Stiles’ arms and collar and bed, he will keep the pain and praise and the twisted path that led him to kneel for this beautiful human boy.

“Stiles,” Derek murmurs and Stiles huffs, sleepy. His fingers are rubbing clumsily over Derek’s wrist, pressing wet sloppy kisses into his chest.

“Love you, sweetwolf,” he mumbles and Derek sighs, happily.

They will clean up later, and Stiles will rub his shoulders and back, paper and coddle him. Feed him bits of chocolate and sips juice as Derek reclines against him and something mindless plays on the TV and they bask in each other and the quiet space the pack doesn’t intrude on.

Later he’ll kiss Stiles and whisper apologies that aren’t needed but he wants to say.

Later.

Now, he settles deeper in Stiles’ arms and the sweet ache in his back.


End file.
